With a grin on his lips, and a happy song in his heart, Dawson rocketed the Jap MK-Eleven across the sky toward the six P-Forties. And Freddy Farmer half stood up in the rear cockpit and waved a wild greeting to the Flying Tigers. The pilot of the lead plane waggled his wings in reply, and then he and his five buddies swept by the MK-Eleven and came about fast to take up escort positions. Dawson glanced over at the leader and grinned broadly. The Flying Tiger returned the grin, and then made signs with his hands to inquire how much gas Dawson had left in his tanks. The Yank air ace took a quick look at the gauge and gulped. True, he had some gas left, but not nearly enough to get him to Kunming. In fact, he had only fifteen minutes or so of flying time left. Unless there was a field within fifteen minutes range, he and Freddy were still going to have trouble on their hands.

Turning his head toward the Flying Tiger in the leading P-Forty, he lifted up his free hand and opened it and closed it three times. The Flying Tiger nodded acknowledgment, gave Dawson a reassuring wave with his hand and then pointed ahead and to the north. And just twelve minutes later the pilot waggled his wings once more, dropped the shark's-head nose of his plane, and went sliding downward. Dawson took a look downward and swallowed hard. As far as he could see there wasn't the sign of a field below. There was nothing but lush green jungle and cliff and crag-studded hills and mountains. He knew they were over the Burmese border, but at just what point he could only guess.

"I hope that guy isn't kidding!" he grunted absently. "You could break your neck without any trouble landing in that stuff down there. Oh, well. Here's hoping, anyway."

There was no need for Dawson to be worried, however. A little under a minute later, the leading P-Forty eased off the angle of its glide, and slid around the corner of a hill range and settled down onto a small, level field, that looked like anything else but from the air. The other five Flying Tigers went down in rapid succession to show Dawson where he should land. And then, just as the Jap M-Eleven's engine was sputtering out the last of its song of power, Dawson whipped off the ignition switch, and coasted down the rest of the way.

No sooner had he touched ground than a couple of Flying Tiger mechanics rushed out and waved him over to the side of the field where heavy tropical growth grew like a solid green wall. They grabbed his wing tips, and helped him wheel-brake the plane in under the edge of the stuff. And when Freddy and he finally legged down onto the sun-baked ground, there wasn't a single plane left out in the open for prowling Jap eyes to spot from above.

"Wonder what this place is?" Dawson grunted, as he and Freddy watched a dozen or so youths in American Volunteer Group uniforms come running over to them.

"I think it's near Menglien, in Burma," the English youth replied. "Between the Indo-China border and the Salween River. But what does it matter? We're in very safe hands, and praise the good Lord for that!"

"Check, and double check!" Dawson echoed the statement. "Now, just one more hop, and this crazy messenger boy job will be all over."

Freddy Farmer started to comment on that but checked himself as the group of Flying Tigers arrived. They were all American boys, and a warm, satisfying feeling flooded through Dawson. One of them, a tall, dark-haired man with a major's insignia on his shoulder straps, flipped a hand up in friendly salute and acted as spokesman.

"Welcome to Burma, Captains Dawson and Farmer!" he said. "How's one of those Jap crates fly? And did you really swipe it in the Philippines? Oh, yeah. I'm Major Brown, Fifth Group Commander. I'll introduce you to the boys later. But welcome, anyway."

"Thanks, Major," Dawson said with a faint frown. "How come you know who we are, and that we swiped this MK-Eleven in the Philippines? We didn't think anybody knew it, except maybe some Japs."

"That's just the point," the major replied with a chuckle. "Some Japs did know it, and now the whole world knows it, maybe. At least, if they've been tuned in on the Jap radio in this neck of the world. Darned near the whole Jap Air Force has been looking for you for hours. I guess some of them must have got close, eh, to force you this far south. According to the Jap radio, you two were supposed to be headed for Chungking."

For a couple of seconds neither Dawson nor Freddy Farmer could say a word. Their feet, figuratively speaking, had been knocked right out from under them. The fact that their supposedly secret journey to Chungking had been publicized just about as much as Santa Claus' yearly trip on Christmas Eve left them speechless, and gaping at the Flying Tiger C.O.

"Jap radio, sir?" Freddy Farmer finally found his voice. "You mean, the Japs have been broadcasting this thing?"

"Well, mainly for Jap Air Force consumption, I guess," the major replied. "But anybody who tuned in, and understood Jap, could have got the story. Part of it, anyway. We've got a radio here, of course, and one of the boys understands Jap. So we learned that Captains Dawson and Farmer are wanted plenty bad by the Japs. It seems they are believed to have stolen a plane near Legaspi, in the Philippines, and are undoubtedly headed for Chungking. All available Jap pilots were ordered into the air from Hong-kong to the Burma border to find these two wanted lads, and force them down and take them prisoner. Force them down, not shoot them down. Maybe you know why. I don't. Anyway, we were out on patrol when our ground station relayed to us that the Japs had sighted you, and where. Seemed as if you might get into trouble, so we busted out a ways to help if we could."

"And how you did, Major, how you did!" Dawson exclaimed. "And thanks from the bottom of our hearts. Yes, we do know why the Japs want us alive. We—well, we've got an important date in Chungking. I can tell you that much, anyway. But it sure is a shock to learn that the Japs over here knew all about us. We'd been thinking we were pretty slick to have given them the run-around."

The Flying Tiger C.O. grinned and shrugged.

"Things like that happen, and often," he grunted. "It sure does beat all how secrets get around in this darn war. But they sure do. And from my experiences with the Japs I've learned that Hitler's trick Gestapo hasn't got a thing on the little brown slant eyes when it comes to espionage and stuff. But here, here! You two must be about dead on your feet. We can compare notes later. You'll be wanting food, and rest. Or—or are you really in a hurry to get to Chungking?"

"Frankly, we are, sir," Dawson told him. "We began this trip from London four nights ago, and—-well, there's just one more hop to make, and we'd sure like to get it over with, if you get what I mean? So we were wondering if you could spare us gas for this MK-Eleven to get us to Chungking?"

Major Brown scowled and shot a worried look up toward the clear blue sky.

"We've plenty of gas," he said presently. "It isn't a case of that. But this MK is a marked ship, Dawson, and there are flocks of Japs on patrol between here and Chungking. You'd never make it unless some of us went along as escort. And—"

"Well, could we borrow a couple of your P-Forties, sir?" Freddy Farmer interrupted politely. "Then the Jap beggars probably wouldn't suspect. And we'd bring them right back. Not necessary for us to remain in Chungking for any great length of time, you know."

The Flying Tiger C.O. sighed heavily, and looked very sad. He gestured toward twelve Curtiss P-Forties well dispersed about the edges of the small field.

"Those are all the ships we have," he said. "And just enough pilots to fly them. At any other time, I'd say take a couple and luck to you. At any other time, too, I'd radio Kunming for permission to have us all escort you up there, and you could fly the MK. But both of those things are out now. Maybe this mission of yours is plenty important, but—"

The senior officer paused and shrugged again.

"But we've got an important mission coming up 'most any minute, too," he continued presently. "A matter of some twenty thousand Chinese soldiers caught in a trap, and about to be slaughtered by the Japs. Sometime today every A.V.G. unit within reach is going to try and fix it so's those Chinese soldiers can get out of the trap. If they don't make it today, they're sunk—every one of them!"

"Good gosh!" Freddy Farmer breathed. "Twenty thousand, you say, sir?"

"And maybe more!" the other said grimly. "Northwest of here, about sixty miles. At a bend in the Salween River. The Chinese are on one side, and a much larger Jap force on the other. A surprise move that caught the poor devil Chinese cold. The river is shallow there, but right behind the Chinese is a five hundred foot cliff. They came down it by small road and foot path. Just infantry units, with no artillery support at all. Meantime, the Japs had closed in on the other side of the river, with plenty of artillery. So the Chinese are caught both ways. If they try to retreat up the cliff roads the Japs can pick them off like flies. And if they try to cross the river and get at the Japs with their machine guns and rifles, the Jap artillery can drown them like rats—by the thousands. We hope to ground-strafe and light bomb the Japs so much they won't have time to let the Chinese have anything before the Chinese have been able to force the river crossing and can come to close grips with them. If we don't do that today, Chiang Kai-shek's boys are lost. The Jap artillery will have all been moved into position by nightfall. So you see—"

Major Brown gestured, and left the rest hanging in mid-air. Both Dawson and Freddy Farmer nodded, and showed their understanding and sympathy with their eyes.

"Well, in that case, sir—" he began, and stopped.

He stopped because at that moment three things happened all at the same time. First, an A.V.G. orderly came pounding up on the dead run.

"Word's just been flashed, Major!" he panted. "Group take off and proceed as ordered!"

The second thing that happened was the ungodly wail of the air raid siren mounted atop a small shack on the far side of the field. And the third thing that happened was the sudden, lightning-like appearance of a lone Jap Zero wing screaming around the corner of the hill range, and straight down toward the field.

Dawson had hardly spotted it before he saw the jetting streams of orange-yellow coming out from the leading edges of its wing. It swept down low until its belly was almost touching the field, and it came straight for the group near the MK-Eleven. Dawson heard Major Brown roar out for everybody to duck for cover, but the order was quite unnecessary. Everybody had done just that, and as Dawson tried to bury his own body deep in the sun-baked ground, his ears were filled with the savage snarl of the Zero's gunfire. It was as though the plane were sitting right on top of his head, and its guns pumping bullets straight into his brain. And mingled in with the chattering roar was the sound of fire from ground guns posted about the field. Then suddenly there was silence, to be shattered almost immediately by a terrific explosion just overhead.

Impulsively Dawson twisted over and stared up to see what was left of the Jap Zero about six or seven hundred feet up in the air. Ground gunners had obviously caught it cold, and its gas tank had blown it into all those flaming splinters that were now arcing out far and wide. Its dead pilot, however, had seemingly fulfilled his suicide mission. As Dawson twisted over he saw that the MK-Eleven was on fire and blazing fiercely. That fact snapped him out of his trance and brought him leaping up onto his feet with a cry of alarm struggling up his throat.

It was then, though, that he realized there was no gas in the MK-Eleven for those raging flames to explode. And it was then, also, that he saw the terrible look on Major Brown's face. Wild, seething rage, and bitter, heart-crushing agony flamed on the senior officer's face. Dawson leaped over to him and grabbed his arm.

"You hit, sir?" he shouted. "Where? Take it easy, and—"

"I'm okay!" the other snapped. "But Stevens, and Gregg. They caught one. They can't go. That leaves only ten of us to do a big job. I wonder if—"

"Ten nothing!" Dawson roared as he saw the two wounded Flying Tigers stretched out on the ground. "You've still got twelve. What do you think Farmer and I do for a living? Drive tanks?"

"But, but Chungking!" Major Brown sputtered. "I can't ask you two to—"

"And you can't stop us, either!" Dawson cut him off. "Chungking? Listen! Twenty thousand trapped Chinese soldiers are worth making Chungking wait! Heck! You think Freddy and I would sit here and cool our heels while all those Chinese lads are trapped? And by dirt rotten Japs? Nuts! What two planes, Major? Point them out, and let's go!"

"Over there, numbers six and ten!" the Flying Tiger leader cried. "And good—!"

"Same to you!" Dawson snapped and started running. "Come on, Freddy. Shift it! We've got some real flying to do for a change!"

Not over two minutes later twelve shark head-painted Curtiss P-Forties went roaring up off the surface of that field, slid in close in formation, and went cutting around and up toward the northwest. Flying at number three on the right, Dawson turned his head and grinned over at Freddy Farmer flying the same formation position on the left. The English youth seemed to feel his look, for he turned his head and returned the grin. They both nodded silently and immediately returned their attention to the business of flying.

"Tough on those two lads hit!" Dawson breathed to himself as the formation went ripping along over the uninviting terrain of North Burma. "But what a break for Freddy and me. Once again going into action with the Flying Tigers. Hot dog! And here's hoping that this time things will turn out even better than that other time, which was plenty, what I mean!"[3]

With a grim nod for emphasis, Dawson twisted the little button on the stick to "Fire" position, and made sure that everything was set to release the cluster of twenty small strafing bombs fitted to the under side of the wings. Everything was in order now, and all that was left was the passing of time, and the arrival at the objective.

And that arrival seemed to become a fact almost before Dawson could blink his eyes and take a deep breath. As though by magic, three more Flying Tiger Groups materialized in the Burma sky. And just ahead at a hair pin bend in the muddy Salween River, the ground on both sides was beginning to belch up flame and smoke. But most of the flame and smoke came from the north side of the bend, from the heavily fortified Japanese positions. And it seemed to be no more than a couple of split seconds later that Dawson was wing-screaming his Curtiss P-Forty practically down at the vertical.

In his earphones he heard Major Brown bark orders for two of the Flying Tigers to stay top-side to ride herd and watch out for Jap planes. But he didn't turn his head to take a look at the two who were to remain aloft. He kept his eyes fixed on the picture below, and his blood boiled with anger. Trapped was right! And how! It was like a small edition of the beach at Dunkirk, during the British evacuation of France back in 1940. Thousands and thousands of brave Chinese troops were huddled in the shore growth with the suicide cliff at their backs. And across the river's bend in the low hill, thousands and thousands of little slant-eyed rats of Nippon were hurling death and destruction into the midst of those Chinese. The foothills seemed to explode shell fire every three or four feet in any direction. And trailing backward along the narrow roads were columns of supply trains moving upward with more horror and more death for those helpless Chinese.

All that and more Dawson saw and absorbed with his eyes as he went roaring downward. And then he was within range of the Jap forces, and all thoughts of everything fled from his brain. That is, all thoughts of everything save the constant thought of hammering those hordes of slant-eyed rats into the ground as long as he and his plane and his guns could hold out. Here was a chance to pay back for some of the things he had seen and had suffered himself. Here was a chance to fight for a gallant nation; a nation that had held its own against the Tokyo vermin for so many years. Chungking? Sure! Freddy and he would get to Chungking presently. Right now, though, the lives of twenty thousand Chinese soldiers hung in the balance. The lives of twenty thousand Chinese soldiers, and some thirty odd shark-painted Curtiss P-Forties overhead to do something about it!

"Don't worry, pals, we'll blast them out for you! We'll blast the rotten bums out even if we have to come down and do it with our bare fists! And how, pals! And how!"

Silly, crazy words? Certainly! But Dave Dawson's brain was afire with the excitement of battle. And besides, words shouted and screamed aloud are simply a warrior's escape valve in the heat of conflict. Sure! Crazy, silly, inane words! But there was nothing crazy or silly about Dawson's guns, or the light strafing bombs fitted under his wings. Nor was there anything silly about the way he and the others tore right down until their props were practically flipping off the helmets of the Jap troops. And nothing silly about the way they blasted ammunition truck after ammunition truck on the roads, and knocked scores and scores of the little brown devils out of the world at practically every tick of their wrist-watches.

Before those Flying Tiger P-Forties had arrived, the Japs had been turning the opposite bank of the river bend into a smoking, blazing graveyard. But now it was all very different. The graveyard had been moved to the other side of the Salween's bend, and the Japs were getting the savage, relentless back-fire of something they had started.

"So? Think so? Well, think again, but good!"

The words automatically burst from Dawson's lips as he caught sight of two heavily loaded ammunition trucks rocking down one of the roads straight for the river's bend. Chinese troops relieved from the terrific pounding of Jap fire were starting to swarm across the shallow river and get at close quarters with the enemy. Some Jap officer had spotted them, though. Or perhaps it was just a suicidal idea of the drivers of those two ammunition trucks. At any rate, the two trucks were hurtling down to the river's bank to plow into the water among those swarms of Chinese troops, and blow them all to bloody pieces.

That was the mad Jap suicide idea. But two steel-eyed eagles spotted what was taking place. Two steel-eyed eagles who had been feasting on juicy roast beef in London just four nights before. And down they streaked like two man-made birds of vengeance straight for those two trucks hurtling toward the river's edge. And when he was little more than a few feet over the leading truck, Dawson dumped the last of his light strafing bombs, and instantly nosed upward for altitude. On that load of exploding death he could practically have dropped a lighted match!

Hardly had his P-Forty started to prop-scream for the sky before the whole of Burma below him exploded in a world-shattering thunder of sound. He had purposely dropped down low so that he would be sure not to miss his target. And so his zooming plane was caught by a thousand invisible hands, spun around like a top and flung high and far across the sky. Instinctively he tried to battle the helpless plane, but he might just as well have tried to jump out into thin air and hold it back with his two hands.

Earth, sky, fire, smoke, and sections of airplane spun around in a mad race before his eyes. He saw the Jap hordes retreating from their positions in mad, frenzied flight. He saw wave after wave of Chinese soldiers swarming across the river and lighting out after the heels of the fleeing Japs. He saw a section of his left wing let go, and go sailing off into space. He even saw Freddy Farmer's P-Forty come tumbling down past him. And a split second later his own plane broke in two right at the cockpit, and popped him out into thin air as a pea pops out of a pod.

In a dazed, abstract sort of way he knew that he was falling through space. He knew also that his right hand clutched the rip-cord ring of his parachute. He thought, but he wasn't sure, that he had yanked the ring, and that the lifesaving white parachute silk was billowing upward. He had just a vague idea that the parachute had mushroomed out, and that his fall had been checked. However, there was no time to get control of his neck muscles and twist his head around and up to look. There wasn't time because at that instant jet black night sky seemed to drop straight down on him—and he knew no more!